


Conqueror

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1300s, M/M, Swedish Crusades, hints of Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Swedish Crusades were not a happy event for Finland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conqueror

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=10171768#t10171768) for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=1056120#t1056120) and listed on the kindex [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia_kindex/388193.html).
> 
> This piece has also been [illustrated](http://i29.tinypic.com/28wib5s.png)! (NSFW)

Sweden comes with his cross and his Christ, lambs and fish and bread, and he sets his blade against Finland’s. They fight, they fight deeply, and Finland is struck, badly, enough that he goes still and silent in his own mind. Blackness.

 

 

He wakes in a bed that smells unlike his own; he tries to rise and finds his ankles and wrists tied, and he is naked. No knife on his belt with which to cut himself free, of course not. Sweden is clever, for all that he barely speaks even in his own language.

Finland doesn’t think that the room is Sweden’s. It’s too empty of furnishings. Sweden is a hoarder, a nation that likes to take and keep and trade pretty things. He wouldn’t live in a room completely devoid of gold.

 

 

Some time later, Sweden walks in the door carrying food. He sets it down on a table by the side of the bed, and stretches Finland’s arms out on the bed before kneeling on them and untying the rope from around one of his wrists. The now-free end is tied to the frame of the bed.

Sweden mumbles something in his own language; Finland ignores it. He understands enough Swedish to get by, but would rather spend his attention on what he can learn from body language, rather than struggling through words.

The plate of food is put by his side. He is allowed to feed himself, at least, so he doesn’t abuse the privilege, just as he does not abuse his privilege to relieve himself relatively unguarded. Nations do not die easily, especially one so wild as himself. His people will resist. All he has to do is plan, and wait.

 

 

His people resist, and the Swedes strike them down. In sympathy his eye blackens, bruises form along his ribs. Nothing debilitating, but unpleasant. Eventually Sweden stops letting him feed himself, because they both know that tactics get dirtier as people get more desperate. Even so, Finland bites his fingers, drawing blood. Sweden usually hits him as punishment – the head, or his already-bruised, perhaps cracked, ribs. And then Finland starves for a day or two. He’s not sure how long. Sweden has left the window uncovered to disorient him – it is summer; the sun does not set, so it is more difficult to judge the passing of time.

Eventually Sweden tires of this game, this fighting. Finland’s ribs are definitely cracked, and his wrists are open sores from the rope. He is lucky to be what he is; it means the wounds are not infected. So when Sweden comes, and unties-reties first one wrist, then another, then a leg – turning him over – he struggles, but not enough. He can’t struggle enough.

“ _Ja_ means _yes_ ,” Sweden mumbles, using probably his only words of Finnish. “ _Nej._ No.”

Finland knows where this is headed, so he curses Sweden with the names of all Finland’s gods, and the Christ as well. Sweden cringes – Finland senses it in the sudden shudder of Sweden’s fingers against his bare shoulders. Sweden’s breathing is jerky, heavy, loud, calloused hands rough as they slide across Finland’s back, his neck, play with his lengthening dirty hair.

This will be his first time taken like this, and knowing Sweden’s thoroughness – Sweden built the bed in preparation for him, with its high frame and sturdy posts – it will not be the last.

He snarls into the bed, turns his face, and is surprised that Sweden is still dressed.

“If you’re going to do it, you need to take off your clothes,” he points out in Finnish. Sweden strikes him in the back of the neck with his elbow, hard enough to make him fear for his spine, his head.

“In Swedish,” Sweden orders him, in that language.

Finland falls silent.

Sweden sets his fingertips against the ridge of Finland’s eye socket. “In Swedish,” he repeats.

Oh no. Not the eyes – not that, not ever that. A man with only one eye cannot make war. A man with blood between his legs can fight, but –

“ _Nej_ ,” he whispers, and Sweden’s hand slides away from his eyes, traces down his back, between his legs.

Finland supposes Sweden is kinder than he could have been. He uses oil, anyway, and is careful enough with Finland’s body, takes things slowly, using his fingers first. Finland wants to think this is a sort of cautiousness, but thinks dully that it is probably more that Sweden intends to do this again and wants him intact for it.

Sweden, when he starts pushing in, reaches to take Finland’s penis, tries to work him into some state of arousal. Finland is surprised and shamed when his body pays attention. He thinks it will end when Sweden comes inside him, but Sweden doesn’t pull out – keeps his hand tight between Finland’s legs until he comes too. As though he’d enjoyed it.

Sweden lays something, skin-pressure, against the back of Finland’s neck, and Finland waits to be choked into unconsciousness, but it doesn’t happen. Instead it goes away just before Sweden pulls out and gets off the bed. Finland presses his face into the sheets so Sweden cannot gloat at his shame and listens to Sweden dress himself and leave.

 

 

After that, Sweden unties his hands and one of his feet, and lengthens the rope around his other ankle so that he can wander around the room. It isn’t long enough to hide behind the door when it opens, nor to let him reach anything he can pick up and throw or even use to hit Sweden. Not unless Finland can overpower him and slam his head into the nearby table a few times, or break his nose on the bed frame.

Finland tries. Sweden throws him onto the bed and rapes him again, though with less consideration than before – maybe that’s because Finland keeps trying to turn around and take out his eyes.

In the end, Finland comes anyway, body tight with forced arousal. Sweden bites, gently, into the meat of his shoulder after he’s finished, then pulls out and gets dressed. Finland watches him squint down at his clothing, then sits up – he winces – and reaches to fix Sweden’s clothing himself. He wants to be a free nation, but he wants his imprisonment in this room and his violation to stop more. If he stops resisting for now, maybe – maybe Sweden will forget, will lose vigilance, and then Finland can strike him and escape.

“T'ck,” Sweden mumbles.

“Varsågod.” Finland bows his head. He wants to weep but doesn’t dare.

 

 

He does anyway, curled up on the floor, unable to stomach sleeping in the bed. The sheets smell of his come, and when before – before his own arousal meant Sweden’s aggression – it was arousing, a little comforting. Now the smell makes him want to vomit.

A day or so later, Sweden brings him clothes, unties Finland’s wrist long enough for him to get them on, then ties the rope around the other wrist – to let the sores heal, probably. Other than that, Sweden doesn’t touch him. Finland has to stop himself from trembling, even under that little consideration. He wants to punch Sweden into unconsciousness, take his puukko back from wherever it has been left, cut off Sweden’s penis, slice open his groin and watch the blood drop out of his body.

Finland pushes the urge down. Eventually Sweden would come back, and there would be no placating him after that. Instead he reaches, slowly, runs his hand up Sweden’s arms – palm open, fingers straight, to show no violence, and rests the tips of his fingers against Sweden’s cheekbone.

Sweden flushes bright red, as though angered, and twists away, Finland’s fingers sliding across and away from his skin.

“I…” Finland starts, in Swedish.

Sweden looks up, the knot an inch away from fully tightened.

“I cook. For you.”

The quality of Sweden’s eye-squint changes. “Y’sure?”

“No poison.”

“No knives.”

 _If only_ , Finland thinks. “Not hurt. I promise.”

Sweden lets him to the kitchen, leaves a knife within his own easy reaching distance, and sips at some beer while Finland works. Eventually they eat. Sweden does not die, Finland is able to keep his food down, and the knife is left unused. All is well, and that night, untied, Finland curls up on the floor next to his bed, uneasily at peace.


End file.
